Freak Am I
by harryhatesvoldy
Summary: At the age of six all Harry can think about is the abuse he is receiving from the Dursley's, can he in time realize that he doesn't deserve this and that they have no right to treat him as a slave?


**Title:** Freak Am I.  
**Chapter Title:** [Yet to think of one.]  
**Rating:**** M. **Theme of abuse.

**Disclaimer: I do not claim to be the owner of Harry Potter (I actually wish I was so lucky) However this story is mine, and I own it. I know it isn't a clear that the Dursley's did abuse Harry but JK has hinted that something happened; therefore I took my own ideas and worked with them. I'm sorry if I've offended anyone with this Fan Fiction.**

The blankets smelt stale, the darkness overpowering but still the young boy wept, his head pressed between his knees, his green eyes once full of life, glassy and dead. His young form shook, a sob heaving through his chest as pants escaped his tiny lips. How could he have done it again? He shook his head sadly, looking to the same four walls, willing the tears to stop. He shouldn't cry, this was his fault after all. He was a freak.

His uncle's voice rang through his head, enough to send him crashing back against the wall in terror as he heard footsteps past the tiny cupboard. "Boy?!" The yell sent a tremor down the young child's spine, he stayed silent, hoping he would pass; 'boy,' that's all he was known as, he didn't even deserve a name according to his Uncle Vernon. "Boy?!" The same shout had the youngster cowering against the stone, his hands pressing into his mouth, urging himself not to make a sound, it was too much, he couldn't beat him again could he? The heavy footsteps passed much to the relief of the worn child and the man sloped off, clearly to bed.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, his wet eyes drying as he took a deep breath, the cupboard was the only place he felt safe, there no one hurt him, no one expected him to be more than he was, there he was 'just Harry.' Clenching his small fist, the boy pulled up, feeling around the dark and traced the drawing he had done earlier, the need to be close to someone urgent, yet there was no one. No one ever came and he doubted they ever would, why would they care? He was nothing special, just the word that was always spat at him constantly. A Freak.

The child's breathing was laboured as he closed his eyes, resting his small head against the chalk markings, slowly the house fell quiet; silent and Harry thanked his lucky stars that he had escaped a second round. His body was aching for release, his skin stinging where the leather belt had made contact, the bruises soon to form, sure to be as magnificent as ever. The tiny tongue darted from his lips, an obvious sign of dehydration yet the young boy knew it was no use; the cupboard was locked and would stay way until morning. Harry held himself stiffly and after turning his body, collapsed quickly back into the worn rags of his bed, his eyes closing, wishing sleep would overtake him, but like it was ever so easy.

Then the pain started, working it's way up his small frail form, as he tried to ignore it, pressing his lips hard together, Harry made no sound as he bit back the second lot of tears, this time he was determined that they would do not fall, he didn't deserve the clothes he wore, the food he ate, but he deserved this. Sucking in a breath, the child felt the tangy taste of blood in his mouth and swallowed, allowing the same red substance to clog up his airways, this had become routine and he knew it well, biting through his lip wouldn't betray his agony but would make sure he suffered less. Swallowing quickly, the boy grimaced, his mouth like rust as he tilted his head back, his eyes barely open, trying to stop the thoughts which were in turmoil. He tried desperately to bring up an image of his parents but it was no use, he had none. His parents were dead; killed in a car crash and he wasn't allowed to even mention them.

All this had started because a simple stranger had waved at Harry in the street and young as he was, unable to provide a satisfying answer had caused the eyes of his uncle to hold a familiar look; from this he was going to get punished. The young child had tried to protest, promising that the man who had been wearing a strange cloak and pointed hat, would never hurt the family, but still it hadn't been enough. Harry had gulped, knowing what was coming and trailed behind his cousin Dudley, praying he didn't have to go home.

Yet could he call the place he was beaten home? Home was supposed to be cosy, comforting even and this was far from the truth, he was an unwanted orphan, he should be grateful to the Dursleys or so his Uncle yelled at him in time to the snap of the belt or the collisions against the walls. Harry didn't understand, he tried his best to be good, to please him but it was never enough and he was always attacked. Why him? Why not Dudley? He often thought that and if he was stupid enough to voice his thoughts, then he would be slammed hard against the stone, anger in that fury filled man who he was supposed to call family.

Dudley could never do no wrong, not the precious boy that was Vernon's son and Harry was disgusting, for even comparing himself to the prince; and was always reminded why he should never do such a thing. That he should be on his knees, thanking them for taking him in, that he should be glad to be here instead of an orphanage. Harry only knew what Uncle Vernon described, but even that appealed more to him that the hell he got at Privet Drive. No one embraced him and told him things were OK and the truth was Harry knew they weren't, things would never be OK and to lie and say they were was wrong, even his teachers hated him, every pupil in the class, glaring at him encouraged by Dudley's taunts.

What was wrong with him? Why could he never meet his Uncles expectation's? He groaned softly, his small body curling around the only warmth of the cupboard and shivered, his heart beats quick, his pulse rapidly beating in his tiny dry throat. No one wanted him and he knew why, he always managed to mess things up, breakfast, cleaning, any task that his aunt seemed to be able to perform in seconds took hours, though he always pushed himself, placing the last part of energy he had into his chores. He was at the mere age of six but it didn't matter, he was waiting, eagerly for the time a smile, just once would cross those hatred filled features; yet as much as he hoped it never happened, and would it ever?

Harry didn't know but he was never going to give up trying, he was going to somehow make his Uncle happy, whether that was in a year or ten years time, he had to. Listening to his heart which was almost triumphant, Harry found himself able to move without the need to cry out and dragged his bedding to the corner, curling up slowly, he sighed softly, his eyes closing and lay letting sleep overtake him; just awaiting the nightmares which always managed to wake him; they would come, he was sure of it.


End file.
